Schwarzwald
by FloatingPizza
Summary: Leutnant Keilwasser, stranded near Stalag 13 yet again, finds himself at the end of the metaphorical rope after having to deal with both Klink and a flammenkübelwagen. Sequel to 'Schüttelfrost' and 'Raining and Pouring'. For the 2013 Short Story Speed Writing Contest.


Do you ever think before opening a door? I mean, really _think? _Stand there hesitating, fingertips hovering above the knob, biting your lip and weighing the alternatives? Thinking, searching for a way out, tracing the possible consequences of your action, down to the second? I don't, normally- I'm not exactly what you'd call an philosopher- but this time I certainly did.

I stood there before that silently mocking wooden rectangle a solid five minutes, sweating, flexing my gloved hands, and gnawing a hole in my cheek while I tried to pretend I didn't notice the gorgeous secretary and that funny look she kept giving me. I probably could have stayed outside and flirted with her all I liked- and I certainly _wanted _to, believe me- except then _he _would hear me, come outside himself, and then I'd never hear the end of it.

Following my five minutes of deliberations and intentional time-wasting, which used up all the mercy period I could expect- wait long enough and he'd come out himself, you see, and that would certainly not be a pretty sight- I mustered my resolve and threw myself to the winds of fate.

I flung the door open and stepped in, clicking my heels and bowing and saluting all at once, one fluid, ultra-military movement designed specifically to impress Prussians.

Said Prussian, however, seemed more startled than impressed. I had caught him engrossed in what seemed a very non-regulations magazine, and at the sound of my intrusion he practically jumped out of his skin. His monocle jumped out, anyway, and set to spinning in a tight little circle on his desk.

I kept my composure and resisted the urge to smirk. The sooner I could get this over with, the better. "Leutnant Keilwasser reporting as ordered, Herr Kommandant." I said crisply.

The Kommandant, a nettlesome balding fellow my the name of Klink, finished stuffing his issue of _Mädchen_ into a desk drawer and then scrambled around replacing his monocle before he deigned to speak to me, which was fine. The less he spoke, the better, as far as my nerves were concerned.

Klink finally stuffed his eyepiece into place and answered my salute, much to the relief of my stiffening arm muscles. He then gave this toothy sort of grin that reminded me of a buzzard trying to smile. If buzzards had teeth, that is. "Were you, ah, _conversing_ with Fräulein Hilda, Leutnant Keilwasser? It seemed to take you a while to get to my office."

I felt my cheeks flame up like a city road in the summer and decided this conversation had gotten off to a decidedly unpleasant start. I changed the subject, or rather brought it back to where it was supposed to be in the first place. "Obergefreiter Langenscheidt informed me that you wished to speak to me, sir. I am interested in learning why." Especially since Obergefreiter Langenscheidt had to wake me up from a very peaceful nap I was having in order to tell me that.

Klink started rubbing his hands together. "Ah. Yes. Still waiting on your transport, are you?"

"Waiting in great tension, sir. My superior officer will take stern action against me if I'm not in Hannover by tomorrow morning." Fatal action, most likely.

Klink nodded. "I understand _completely, _Leutnant. Our proud German officer corps, hard as steel, unwilling to bow." He folded his arms and looked off into the middle distance. "I recall the days when I was but a Leutnant myself. Hard days. Proud days." He nodded again, seeming very pleased with his exposition. "Once I was in a situation much like yours, only I was stuck at a cavalry outpost for three days, in the rain..."

I felt my teeth start to grind together in the back of my mouth. A tirade- no, a flood, a _deluge_ of useless and inane twitterpatter seemed imminent. It only takes about ten minutes in Klink's company to learn the vital skill of detecting an oncoming storm of prattle.

I myself had been at Stalag 13 a good two hours, after my kübelwagen started backfiring about a mile out from camp. I had thought it was gunfire at first and nearly ran into a tree trying to get out of the imagined line of fire, but that wasn't the half of it. After I came to my senses and remembered what a bad engine sounds like, I parked the thing and was cursing it in gutter German, about to open the hood, when I noticed this little trickle of smoke and then the whole damn thing caught on fire. I really started spitting gutter German then and the kübelwagen for its part spit out black smut and engine grease all over me. It took me thirty minutes of vigorous scrubbing and a full bar of soap to get all the mess off me and I'm still not sure I got it all yet.

Anyway, back to my misery and Klink's nostalgia. Remember what I said earlier about 'weighing the alternatives' at the Kommandant's door? One of those alternatives I had planned out was the theft of Klink's staff car in the name of a national emergency. It was a good plan and it was sounding better by the second, but I had been in that camp about two hours and one nap too long to declare a spontaneous national emergency. Alternative alternatives would have to be pursued.

"Kommandant," I said sharply, breaking off his Great War reminisces, "it is a matter of great military importance that I get to my destination as fast as possible, with as few interruptions as possible. My stay at this camp is proving to be an interruption of gross proportions. It must be abbreviated schnellstmöglich."

I count it among my blessings that I can look and sound much more authoritative and formidable than I really am. Without this talent I doubt I would have made it through the war this long in one piece.

The Kommandant seemed rather nonplussed. "I'm sure your vehicle-"

"Kübelwagen." I interjected with a hiss. "It's a bloody _kübelwagen_."

Klink blinked. "I'm sure that your kübelwagen, then, is being repaired as quickly as our mechanics can manage. I would offer you another car, but you see, they're all, ehm, out of commission at the moment. Dreadful problems with the fuel lines."

I leaned over Klink's desk, planting my knuckles into the wood and making the most of my two meters of height. "In that case, Kommandant, I believe I'm going to have to requisition your staff car."

I was desperate. My conscience could tolerate insubordination in the name of getting to Hannover.

Klink blinked at me again, like an overdressed owl with a monocle. That nose of his didn't detract from the comparison. "My staff car, you say?"

"Yes." I growled. "Your staff car. Since it seems to be the only viable mode of transportation in this camp."

He looked doubtful. "Well, there is the motorcycle-"

"_Your staff car, _Kommandant!" I shouted, heart pounding. I was beginning to sweat under the macho act. Klink outranked me by thirty years and it wouldn't take him long to remember that.

At the moment, though, rank-conscious he was not. He fluttered about with his words a moment, wringing his hands. "When I said all of the cars were out of commission, I'm afraid I meant all of the cars. Including mine."

Now it was my turn to blink. "What?"

"The fuel lines, cut. All of them. Mine was filled with sand." He grimaced. "We're waiting on replacements."

"Replacements." I said flatly. "And how long will that take?"

"They usually reach us in a week. We just requested them yesterday, and there may be a layover due to the weekend. We're stranded." Klink's voice had been steadily drooping throughout the sentence, and when he finished he sounded like someone's wilted blumenkasten.

Of course, that wasn't anything compared to me. I dropped the act and dropped into a chair, burrowing my face into my hands. My heart and all my hopes for the future descended into some place small and dark. "I am going to die."

Klink waved his hand half-heartedly. "Leutnant, I'm sure it's not as bad as all that. The replacements will get here eventually. Why they have to take as long to get to Bavaria as they do to get to the Front, though, is beyond me." he muttered.

I didn't answer him and resisted the urge to moan. I was thinking about Switzerland but I knew they'd catch me before I set foot outside of Hammelburg. You can only sprint so far in jackboots.

"-ship supplies by train, ha. It's just as well to ship them by horse and wagon. All the delays the rails have, it's ridiculous. And the motorcycle units, don't even get me started on them-"

Motorcycles.

_Motorcycles._

"_Kommandant!" _I shouted, making Klink jump again. "Didn't you say something about a motorcycle?"

"Yes, we have one of those. You could use that, I suppose, but the thing's horrid, simply horrid. It's a nightmare on turns and the sidecar rides worse than a Fokker Eindecker in turbulence." He shuddered at some unpleasant memory likely involving an upset in the digestion system.

Turns and turbulence were frivolities. I had transportation!

… provided I could find a driver, that is.

"Herr Oberst," I began, "I greatly appreciate your offer. However, I have never driven a motorcycle in my life. I don't think I'd be able to make it out of camp without driving into the fence. Could you spare a man to drive me to Düsseldorf, or even just a train station?" I was whizzing through all the Reichsbahn schedules three years of soldiering had left imprinted in my brain. Unfortunately, all of them pointed to Berlin and none of them had anything to do with Hannover. I'd have to wing it.

Klink grasped his chin with his hand. "Hmm. Well, you _certainly _won't want Feldwebel Schultz driving you. _That _is the true epitome of a motorcycle-related nightmare." Again, that shudder and the unpleasant memory. Different one this time, of course. "I suppose the best course of action would be to let Obergefreiter Langenscheidt serve as your chauffeur. You've already met him, yes?"

"Yes." If you can count rudely waking me up as an introduction. "If he can drive the thing in a straight line, I'll take him."

"No, now, you see, Leutnant, straight lines aren't the problem- it's the turns, as I've said. But it's of no matter," he said as I opened my mouth for what would have probably been a sarcastic reply. "Langenscheidt it shall be. I'll just get Schultz to check Barracks Two and Four before lights out, and it shouldn't be a problem. As if any of the prisoners would try to escape. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13, Leutnant."

"So I've heard." How he managed it I'll never know.

"So you've _heard_?" Klink said in a wounded voice. "Has someone insinuated a stain on my record? That Major Eichenwald from Stalag 8, has he been spreading rumors about me again? Oh, his _nerve-!_"

"Umm, no sir, it's just, um, impressive. I've no idea how you manage it. Sir."

That statement made Klink perk up, unfortunately. He lectured me on the methods of running an 'escape-proof camp' all the way out to the motor pool- I barely had time for a glance and a smile at Hilda on the way out- and after about a minute of his ramblings I was, as expected, thoroughly sick of it.

In an attempt to direct my attention elsewhere, I cast a glance over the wide dirt yard of the compound and its occupants, most of them foreign and none of them terribly energetic. It was late in the afternoon of an unusually warm spring day, and I couldn't blame them for feeling lethargic- my coat was already feeling heavy on my shoulders and I hadn't been out here any time, hardly. It was early enough in the year the mornings were still cold, you see, and I wasn't about to go off on another trip without the proper cold weather gear, so I kept my trench coat and gloves on when I set out from the front. There's no telling when you'll need snow tires and a shovel, either. Not that they were doing me any good this time around.

There was one small group of POW's, though, engaged in a what appeared to be a high-stakes volleyball match. They were multinational enough to be colorful, running around the net in their various uniforms, shouting things at each other I was too far away in both distance and language to understand.

I caught sight of two individuals leaning against a barracks wall beyond the volleyball players, an American officer and enlisted man, and I recognized them both from December. The officer was dark-haired, looked relaxed and at ease, but I felt his eyes following me all the way across the camp, not missing a beat. The enlisted man was of African blood but he looked just as intelligent and alert as his officer- an Oberst, if I recall correctly- and both of them seemed to be to be waiting for something, a proposition that didn't exactly sit well with me. They weren't watching us like prisoners watch wardens, I can tell you that much. It sent a current of unease running down my back, but then again most everything in this forest did- and we were still in that forest, fences or not.

Klink managed to conclude his monologue by the time we reached the motor pool, but thankfully he didn't ask my any questions or quiz me on what he just said, which was a blessing. The sole individuals at the pool, aside from the obligatory half-asleep guard, were Obergefreiter Langenscheidt and a blue-uniformed prisoner who was standing alarming close to my kübelwagen, which still looked thoroughly scorched and undriveable.

Langenscheidt's head jerked up when he heard us coming and he hopped off of the stack of tires he had been sitting on, giving a sloppy yet earnest salute in the process. The prisoner turned around and I caught sight of his RAF insignia and a somewhat familiar face. Another one from December.

Klink explained my situation to Langenscheidt in a slightly overblown way, the exact transcript of which I won't subject you to here, then left us sehr schnell on the pretense of returning to paperwork.

I let out a subtle sigh of relief directed at the Kommandant's retreating back. He wasn't really that bad, as far as Prussians go, but he really didn't know when to shut his mouth. It wears on the nerves. Langenscheidt himself was affable enough. I felt I could forgive him for waking me up earlier, and after discussing the transportation issue with him in somewhat greater detail I turned to face the prisoner, giving him the staunch German once-over. When it comes down to it, the German once-over is basically your average, everyday once-over, only with more glare and scowl.

The Englander just smirked in response, his greenish-blue eyes all twinkle and glime. I didn't trust him for a second.

"What is this man doing near my kübelwagen, Obergefreiter?"

Langenscheidt shrugged. "He was only cleaning it, sir, like all the rest of the vehicles. I didn't think he could do any harm. I've been here watching him all the time."

I grunted noncommittally. The Englander peered at my throat and squinted up his eyes a bit, then shook a finger at me and let off a stream of English, which got my hackles up a bit. Not sure if I've told you this before, but my English is basically nonexistent. And I didn't like his tone, all self-assured and accented. "What's he saying, Langenscheidt?"

"He says you have something on your neck, Herr Leutnant. It looks like engine grease."

I instantly took a handkerchief to the offensive spot. "Bloody kübelwagen..."

The Englander- I never caught his name- shook his head and said something, gesturing leftwards with his hand. I gathered he didn't think I was getting the spot just right. I let a breath out through my nose, sort of a nasal sigh, if you will, and jerked the handkerchief left. He shook his head and repeated the word 'no' a couple of times- I could understand that much- then delved into vocabulary too deep for my rudimentary skills.

"Your other left, sir." Langenscheidt contributed.

I moved the handkerchief accordingly, but that only seemed to irritate the Englander worse. We went through this drill about five times before the prisoner just got frustrated with it all and made a move towards my neck, actually laid his hand on my coat, which wasn't the best idea considering the shape my nerves were in.

I jumped backwards and my hand flew to my sidearm, a move that was all instinct. I had no intentions of actually shooting the fellow, none at all, but you spend enough time in war and you develop certain habits and they stick deep.

The Englander tossed his hands up and backed up quick, moving away from me almost as fast as Langenscheidt was moving towards him. The Obergefreiter had his rifle leveled and both of them were speaking in English, Langenscheidt shouting and the prisoner apologizing.

It was all over much more quickly than this block of writing makes it seem like. The Englander stayed calm and kept his hands up, Langenscheidt wanted it resolved with as little conflict as possible, and I was just embarrassed by the whole thing. We attracted most of the attention in the compound, what with all the shouting, but the rest of the guards didn't do anything more than give us a wary look and raise their firearms slightly, once they saw Langenscheidt had it under control. The prisoners stopped their game for a stretch of time, volleyball rolling in the dust, but resumed it after the Englander, who had never broken his calm, gave them some hand signal that must have meant alles klar or something along those lines. The yard recovered from its silence, gradually.

The only ones that didn't turn away, after the general buzz of the compound resumed, were those two Americans.

The Oberst kept watching me, gaze level and cool, and while I knew he couldn't have kept eyes on me outside of the compound I felt that dark stare of his at my back until I rode out of the gates an hour later.

It was a relief to finally get out of there come departure time.

* * *

The ride, to be perfectly honest, was uneventful. I suppose Langenscheidt's status as a regular in the woods was enough to cancel out my inherent bad luck, or perhaps I don't offend motorcycles as bad as I do kübelwagens. At any rate, we zipped through the trees and over the hills with nary an interruption or incident, the setting sun far enough to the right to stay out of ours eyes until we reached Hammelburg. I've never toured the place properly, but despite being surrounded on all sides by that impenetrable black forest and having the requisite predatory Gestapo population- you never heard me say that last bit, mind- the town really is quite lovely. But like I said, we moved through it far too fast for me to get a good look at the place.

We reached the train station just before dusk, and a glance at the schedule confirmed a night train to Essen arriving in about 15 minutes that Langenscheidt had mentioned. I felt somewhat optimistic at that, it was one of the few things that had gone right all day...

I hadn't taken off my coat at any time in the past twelve hours, as a precaution against both the weather and thieves, but I made up my mind to sift through all of my papers stored therein before I boarded the train, just as a precaution. I didn't see how I could have lost any of them, but it was regulations, after all, and the whole ordeal at the Stalag had me slightly unnerved.

While I scrounged through my multiple pockets locating various items of documentation, Langenscheidt reclined against the motorcycle, waiting. He wasn't to leave until I did, apparently, and I respected him for not ditching me to go party in town. Not that I suspected Langenscheidt of making 'partying in town' a habit of his.

The Obergefreiter only spoke once after we got to the station, to ask me a question, but once he started speaking I think he forgot what he was trying to say.

"I don't mean to bother you, Herr Leutnant, but you see, I, ah, I don't get out much, I live near the stalag and I've never really traveled anywhere, we didn't even get a radio at home until '38... I've heard people- officers- with your accent, men who come to the stalag and talk to the Oberst, and I'm just curious, I mean, I was wondering, and I couldn't exactly ask them because of rank, you know, and like I said about that radio, I've never been around, I can't place voices and accents… where are you from, sir?"

"Berlin." I answered shortly. I was half amazed and half irritated at his ability to stretch out a simple question. He obviously wasn't used to talking to officers.

"Oh." Langenscheidt muttered."That should have been obvious. The Kommandant, he talks sort of like you, but he's Prussian. Berlin is close to Prussia, right?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, telling myself not to judge the Obergefreiter on the basis of his shyness and pastoral background. "Yes, quite close." If I had the time, I might have taken a moment to reflect on our country's educational system and lack of cultural cohesion, or some such, but like I said, I'm not a philosopher and I was in a hurry. That train came in fifteen minutes.

I continued taking inventory, moving on to my inner coat pocket, where I kept my ID papers and other important things, such as top secret coastal defense plans.

My hand closed on empty air.

I gulped quite suddenly in shock and searched again, frantically, then flipped off the coat and almost tore the seams apart in my panic.

My papers were gone.

_My papers were gone. _

My chest froze and I felt ice in my veins, racing up and down my limbs. I was dead without identification. If those Gestapo men I had seen prowling around caught me without my papers- well, the thought of that situation was enough to get my heart rate up far higher than it needed to be. There was no way they'd fall for the height-intimidation trick like Klink did.

I felt panic dancing on the edges of my mind, but fought it down, for once in my life. I might not have known where those papers went, but I knew a good place to start looking.

There was only one course of action left to take. I drew a grim, shaking breath and buckled my helmet once again.

"Langenscheidt, we're going back to camp."

* * *

**Author's Note: **

When Keilwasser says his English is rudimentary, he _means_ his English is rudimentary. Bless his heart.  
And this story is begging to be expanded into a multi-chapter piece. With more kübelwagen.

On more technical terms, I have strived to keep all German military terms (Feldwebel, Oberst, Obergefreiter) equivalent to their English counterparts as mentioned on the show. Schultz and Langenscheidt's titles I'm a little unsure about, as the ranks the English-speaking world calls Sergeant and Corporal were broken down into more complicated ranks in the Wehrmacht. (Didn't someone say Schultz was an Oberfeldwebel once?) Still, I try! If anyone notices anything off please do correct me.

The Fokker Eindecker was an early WWI fighter plane, designed by Dutch engineer Anthony Fokker for the German Empire. It was the first plane to feature a machine gun that could fire coordinated bursts of gunfire through its propeller and was used by the fliers Boelcke and Immelman to obtain their ranks as aces. The Eindecker (a term denoting its single wing) would later give way to more advanced fighters as the war continued, such as the Fokker Dreidecker (triplane) made infamous by the Red Baron, Manfred von Richthofen (who was actually a pretty cool guy and not as insane as pop culture makes him out to be.) I can't speak of its performance in turbulence from personal experience, but as light as those things were and as miserable as turbulence can make use these days even in our big pressurized steel tubes, well, I think Klink would be justified in his disdain. This has been your complementary WWI history lesson for the day.

Also, schnellstmöglich: as fast/soon as possible, all tied up into one neat word.


End file.
